


A Dangerous Plaything

by LunaMoth116



Series: A Wider Circle (The Circleverse) [12]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Crossover, First Time, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Hand Jobs, Injured John, M/M, Mage!Sherlock, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Non-Explicit Sex, Not Suitable/Safe For Work, Romance, Templar!John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-17
Updated: 2015-07-17
Packaged: 2018-04-09 17:39:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,112
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4358297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LunaMoth116/pseuds/LunaMoth116
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and John continue to grow closer, even as Sherlock’s behavior becomes more and more erratic. A mission gone wrong pushes them to take the next step, but doing so may prove to be even more disastrous, as things will never be the same between them - in ways even Sherlock can’t see coming - after their first night together, when the ultimate closeness could tear them apart forever.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Dangerous Plaything

**Author's Note:**

> _And at long last we return to the two who started it all. Apologies for the delay, but between my new job and Molly, Finn, and Mary having quite a lot to say for some time (go figure), I’ve been busy. They’ve finally stepped off for a bit (but will return eventually), so now it’s back to John and Sherlock. I have at least three more stories in mind for them for the time being after this one, which will essentially wrap up their Origins arc, and after that we shall see. (By which I mean we’re getting these two and their friends to post-Inquisition eventually. :) Am I crazy? Do you really need to ask? ^_~)_   
>  _This story has its rating for a reason. Yep. Slash ahead, folks - non-explicit, per usual, but NSFW nonetheless. You’ve been warned. And we aren’t rushing to get there, either. If you’ve read the rest of this series, you know how much I like a slow burn… ;) And believe it or not, it is actually important to the storyline. You’ll see what I mean at the end. I would also like to note that the steamy bits only comprise about a third of the fic (in other words, there is a lot of Important and Necessary Discussion, per usual), so if you have absolutely no interest in the build-up and aftermath, you may want to head elsewhere._   
>  _Thank you to OtakuElf for being a great sounding board and helping me sort out my thoughts on this one, and Stef, who keeps me going on and off the page; otherwise I would never have gotten past the trickiest parts. What would I do without either of you? Don’t answer that; I don’t want to know. Hope you enjoy this. :) Also, folks, go check out[this fun little ficlet](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3683247) from OtakuElf, which I now consider canon for this ’verse. If you’re up for something longer and like multi-Origin AUs, check out [“One Good Thing About The Blight”](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3990274), by my very good friend._
> 
> **Disclaimer:** _They may not be my children, but I still love them anyway._

_“The true man wants two things: danger and play. For that reason he wants woman, the most dangerous plaything.”_

_~ Friedrich Nietzsche_

 

“So much for talking!” Sherlock shouted over the crackling of the lightning bolt erupting from the end of his staff.

“I thought it was worth a try!” John shot back, just after Oathkeeper had made quick work of one of his attackers.

Sherlock rolled his eyes as he fired the spell, shocking the four men he’d been targeting. “Yes, who would have thought men who deserted their duty and stole supplies on their way out _wouldn’t_ be willing to listen to reason?”

“Now’s _really_ not the time, Sherlock!” John returned his attention to the other men who had him surrounded, bringing Oathkeeper up to parry.

A few days earlier, the two of them had accepted a task from the Blackstone Irregulars to track down some men who had deserted the group and, adding further insult, had nicked supplies when they left. After some investigating, they - well, mostly Sherlock - had determined the men were most likely traveling southwest, and eventually tracked them down within a few hours of Denerim, near the Hafter River. John had insisted they try to talk to the ex-mercenaries before drawing blood, as had been requested; Sherlock had reluctantly agreed. The conversation didn’t last more than three minutes before the deserters drew their swords.

The group wasn’t large, but its members were skilled. They were an even match for a Circle-trained apostate and an ex-templar. Still, the pair were persistent, and eventually all the men lay dead at their feet. Heaving to catch his breath, John rose shakily from the body of the last man he’d killed, withdrawing Oathkeeper and wiping it before putting it away. He felt something wet running down his thigh, and knew he was hurt. He fumbled for a health poultice as Sherlock came to his side.

“Are you hurt?” John asked his partner.

Sherlock shook his head, licking the last drops of a health poultice from his lips. “Nothing I cannot heal. What about you?”

“I - I think - my leg -” John managed before the pain finally hit him. Groaning, he struggled to stand as his nerves caught fire, barely able to feel his right foot as the agony lanced through his lower leg, then seemingly through the rest of his body. The only thing that stopped him from falling over was Sherlock, who caught him just in time and gently lowered him to the ground.

“Let me look at that.” Sherlock brushed aside John’s weak protestations as he knelt between his legs. On seeing the wound, he didn’t seem shocked. Rather, to John’s surprise, he seemed…mesmerized. His eyes were fixed firmly on the blood running from the gash onto the ground, and he seemed to purposely let some of it drip onto his fingers as he carefully lifted John’s leg for closer examination. Was that a sigh John had just heard him make? If so, was it from relief? Or something else?

Then he seemed to recover himself, shaking his head slightly. “It should be within my skill to treat, but we should return to Baker Street as soon as possible. In the meantime, use this.” He released John’s leg and handed him a health poultice and bandages. For the moment, he seemed strangely reluctant to touch John further.

“Okay,” John said weakly, uncorking the flask and applying some of the poultice carefully before drinking the rest, exhaustion beginning to dull the pain by the slightest margin. “Make sure to grab the guild supplies off their leader before we go, would you?”

 o~O~o

They were in luck. While John was able to walk somewhat once the poultice had set, leaning on Sherlock, their journey would have taken much longer had they not been able to hail a passing merchant on his way to the city, who agreed to transport them the rest of the way for a small fee, “long as you don’t bleed all over the goods.” Resting in the back of the merchant’s wagon for the hour or so they had to go, John had plenty of time to think, to try to keep his mind off the pain.

Despite what had happened, he was glad to have had the chance to spend time with Sherlock and have a small adventure with him these past few days. Sherlock’s strange behavior had only worsened over the few months since their first meeting with Mycroft and Greg. At first John hadn’t noticed, naturally, but eventually he began to quietly keep track of the number of times Sherlock wasn’t in bed until morning, and the incidents where one or both of them had had a minor injury (such as a knife wound or a shaving cut) and Sherlock had either overreacted or seemed to stop himself from doing so.

His strange reaction to John’s injury today was just another tally mark for the latter. Whenever John had tried to ask him, again, what was going on, Sherlock had either made a ridiculous excuse, refused to answer, or distracted him by means of his hands and mouth - sometimes using two or three of those tactics. Knowing he couldn’t push, John had tried to let it be, but his curiosity was getting the better of him, especially after today. He didn’t suspect Sherlock was unfaithful; nothing suggested there was someone else involved (though, admittedly, Sherlock would certainly have known how to cover that up), and they hadn’t been together long enough for the flames to die out, only for the sparks to cool off into embers. Not to mention infidelity would only explain the nights out, not the injury reactions, and John had gotten enough lectures from Sherlock about the importance of not twisting facts to fit theories, instead twisting theories to fit facts. Still, now was not the time to ask again, even as Sherlock sat quietly by him, letting him be, but still shooting glances at John’s leg now and then.

Under any other circumstances, John would have assumed Sherlock was just keeping an eye out to make sure the wound didn’t worsen. But now…

John winced as a fresh jolt of pain radiated through his leg. With his and Sherlock’s more minor injuries treated, their first priority now was healing himself. Then they would talk.

Lost in thought, the trip to the city seemed to fly by. Back in Denerim by late afternoon, they stopped by the Gnawed Noble to drop off the recovered supplies and collect their payment, then returned to 221B, where they changed out of their bloodied clothing. Seated in one of their armchairs next to the fire with a cup of tea and his right leg propped up on a stool, trouser leg rolled up to his knee, John waited patiently for Sherlock to return with a bowl of water, a few soft cloths, and a stronger poultice.

Sherlock knelt before him, carefully unwrapping the bandages, stopping when he sensed or heard John wincing in pain. His examination this time was thoughtful, not enthralled as it had been previously. While he was no Molly when it came to the healing arts - and he was well aware of this limitation, loath as he was to admit it - he knew enough to be able to treat anything short of critical injury.

“As I first thought, nothing serious,” he pronounced as he began washing off the blood with a clean, damp rag. “I should be able to treat it now; rest for today and you’ll be fine tomorrow.”

John nodded. “Okay. Good.” He was quiet as Sherlock finished, then watched as the mage reached for the poultice to apply it. As he watched those long, graceful fingers move on his skin, he began to feel something else between his legs…and it wasn’t Sherlock’s hands.

Startled, he glanced down, then bit his lip to hold back a sigh. Oh, Maker…why _now_ , of all times? They were grown men, they loved each other, it wasn’t as if they hadn’t explored that area, however tentatively, before. He wasn’t embarrassed so much as flustered.

Maybe it was just from the feeling of Sherlock touching him in that area, he told himself. Yes.

Trying not to worry about it, and hoping against hope that Sherlock wouldn’t notice, John finally asked about what he had been pondering in the wagon.

“Sherlock, why didn’t you help me bandage myself when I was first injured?”

Sherlock did not look up as he finished applying the poultice. “You have bandaged your own wounds many times before. I didn’t want to risk hurting you further until I’d had a chance to clean up and examine you more closely. We were only a short distance from home; then was not the time to do it.”

John thought for a moment. “I guess that makes sense. But,” he dared to venture, “you seemed to be examining it pretty closely when we were out there. It seemed to…” He cast about for the right word, then went for broke with the first that came to mind: “Stimulate you, even.”

Sherlock abruptly set down the bandages to look at him. John just tilted his head. Had he gone too far? After a few moments, Sherlock returned to his work.

“I was - interested in the possibility of treating you like this,” he answered in a low tone as he drew on his magic - only a little, just enough to stitch some of the skin together, but John felt the tug in his blood all the same, and realized in a panic that the blood seemed to be flowing even _more_ between his legs rather than _away_ from there.

Desperate to think of something else, John latched onto that statement like a thistle onto wool. “You like seeing me get hurt?”

“No, no.” Sherlock looked up and shook his head adamantly as he began rewrapping the bandages. “I do not take pleasure in your pain. But I do find a certain…enjoyment in healing you.”

He had finished with the bandages by now and set them down to look John in the eye. “Much as you seem to.”

John swallowed. “What - what do you mean?”

Sherlock just gave him a knowing look, not moving from his position. Then he dared to go where John had hoped he wouldn’t.

He brushed a hand between John’s legs.

As he did, John felt the blood that wasn’t currently rushing there heading to his face instead. _Andraste’s light, of_ course _he…why is he just_ resting _there -?_

Then Sherlock moved his fingers thoughtfully, almost appraisingly, and now John knew the flush he felt wasn’t from the warmth of the fire. No, the source was…quite a different heat.

“This excites you, doesn’t it?” Sherlock asked quietly, once his hand was around most of John’s hardness.

“You having your hands on me?” John smiled a little, uncharacteristically coy.

The mage shook his head, but he was smiling. “Not just that. The circumstances. The danger we willingly put ourselves into. The adventure. The excitement…”

And now Sherlock was trailing off as his hand continued to move up and down John, gentle and exploring, and any response John might have given was drowned in the swirl of desire that was clouding his thoughts, heightening his senses. He closed his eyes, exhaled, felt himself growing harder between Sherlock’s fingers, the fingers that he always wanted on him and yet was content to let Sherlock touch him with when _he_ wanted.

And right now Sherlock did want. His pace was quickening now, just slightly, and John’s breathing was rising along with it. He set down his tea, placed both hands on the armchair grips, tried to lie back and relax. Sherlock’s hand was making its way upwards now… He paused for just a moment, then made his final, bold move.

When Sherlock reached to pull down his trousers, John did not stop him.

The mage’s hand was firmly around him now, with no barriers separating their touch. John opened his eyes, and felt a quick intake of breath at the sight of his partner kneeling before him, stroking and caressing as if he could do nothing else.

“Wouldn’t we be more comfortable -?” he managed to ask before Sherlock’s free hand was placed over his mouth.

Sherlock shook his head, smiling a little. “You’ve been hurt. I’m the healer. You’re not moving from this chair until I say so.”

Any answer John might have given was supplanted by the low moan that escaped him as Sherlock’s rhythm began picking up. His head fell back against the chair’s soft cushions as his eyes slipped closed again.

No more talking. Just enjoying the moment.

Sherlock’s hand was moving faster now; John’s breaths were coming in pants, his hips were arching, thrusting into Sherlock’s hand; his right hand had freed itself from the armchair grip and grasped Sherlock’s wrist, guiding him, encouraging him. Not that Sherlock seemed to need much help.

When John opened his eyes, gasping and moaning, all he saw was Sherlock. Sherlock, who seemed to be trying to control his own breathing. Sherlock, whose eyes were fastened on his as though transfixed. Sherlock, the first and only man he’d ever loved. Sherlock, with whom he’d gotten a rare second chance. Sherlock, who trusted him - _him -_ with his life and protection. Sherlock, who lived and breathed danger as if it flowed in his blood. Sherlock, who was even now allowed to freely touch where John had scarcely allowed any other man to go, and whose touch was perfect, marvelous, glorious…

_Give it to him,_ he heard in the back of his mind. _You’ve given him everything else. Let him have it, let it happen…_

And with that last coherent thought, John did, groaning as he sagged back into the chair with a flood of pleasure surging through him and every muscle save those in his propped-up leg going wonderfully, bonelessly limp; Sherlock’s strokes finally slowed, then stopped. He seemed to watch with interest as the pulsing quieted, then looked up at John. After a few moments, John raised his head to look back at him.

“That…was nothing like I imagined,” he finally whispered. His throat was dry; he’d forgotten that always seemed to happen after sex, or an approximation thereof.

There was a pause.

“You’ve imagined that?” Sherlock asked finally. His tone wasn’t condescending; rather, to John’s surprise, it was wondering, as if Sherlock could not believe that the man he lived with, whom he loved, with whom he shared everything else, could think about him that way.

“Yes,” John answered. He managed to sit up a bit, smiling; he almost asked, “Don’t tell me you haven’t?” but thought that might sound rude. Instead, as he reached for Sherlock’s head, pulling him forward to kiss him, he murmured, “And that was _better_ than anything I’ve ever imagined.”

The kiss lasted several seconds before they broke apart; when they did, Sherlock was smiling. “Good.”

Without waiting for further comment, he reached for another clean rag and washed off his hand, then carefully wiped John clean; John took the opportunity to redress, then reach for his tea and quickly gulp it down, not caring that it had cooled. He opened his mouth in protest when he saw Sherlock rise and start to walk away, then relaxed once he saw Sherlock was only putting his supplies away and moving their other armchair closer to him, till they were seated across from each other. He sat down with a flask of water and offered to refill John’s cup with it, which John gratefully accepted.

The two of them sat in comfortable silence for a few minutes, sipping their water. John was the first to speak.

“I guess we never really talked about that, did we?”

“No,” Sherlock answered slowly, taking a long pull from his flask. “No, we did not.”

Another silence.

“Why didn’t we?” John asked finally.

Sherlock looked at him and shrugged. “Sex has never been particularly important to me, John. I do not necessarily find it repulsive - I do take some pleasure in it - but nor is it something I actively seek out. While I could make a reasonable guess at how you might feel about the subject, I decided it might be better for you to approach me instead. If it were important to you, I thought you would say so.”

John considered. That had been sensible of him, he supposed. If Sherlock had brought up the subject first, for all he knew he could have been pressuring John into something _he_ wasn’t interested in, when _he_ wasn’t really interested, either. It wasn’t as if they had been living like Lay Brothers since their reunion, but they had never really ventured further beyond heavy kissing and petting. He’d wondered why Sherlock had never tried to take him further, but had decided to just let it be for the time. Maker knew _he_ had been contentedly celibate for years.

_So_ , he thought, _we need to improve at communicating. Of course._ Well, why not start now? He shrugged in response to Sherlock’s comment. “It’s not - unimportant to me, no. But if I had to choose between having sex with many different partners or having just one partner with no sex, I’d pick the second one. I could live without it if I had to, but I enjoy it all the same.”

Sherlock nodded. “Understood.”

When a few moments of silence had passed, John decided to go ahead with his next question. “So…I take it you’re not a virgin?”

Sherlock looked at him for a moment. John just raised an eyebrow. _Yes_ , he thought. _It’s_ my _turn to ask the intrusive personal questions._

“The mage Anders once observed that it was highly unusual for a Circle mage to still be a virgin by the age of twenty-four.” Sherlock shrugged. “He was…not wrong, and I was no exception.”

He showed no pride or shame, remaining customarily matter-of-fact, though John sensed a twinge of disappointment at not having been the exception, the outlier he had always been - or tried to be.

“How many have you been with?” John asked out of curiosity.

“Six partners, three of each gender, when I was between the ages of sixteen and twenty-six. And before you inquire - no, Anders was not part of the group in any way.”

John smiled. “Somehow I didn’t think so.” He thought for a few moments. “My last time was - Maker, almost a decade ago. We don’t take vows of chastity, you know, but most templars act as though we do. Better to stay focused that way.”

“I would have thought encouraging relationships among the templars would have improved your abilities as an army,” Sherlock remarked.

John nodded. “I don’t disagree with that idea. But as I said, most templars are honor-bound to their duty. I suppose part of forgetting the humanity of those you guard is giving up some of your own.” Before they could get off-topic, he quickly went on, “Anyway, my last time was seven or eight years ago. She was temporarily stationed at the Tower and later transferred to Gwaren. Her name was Sarah.”

Sherlock tilted his head to indicate he was listening. John continued, “It wasn’t really a relationship; maybe it could have been if things were different, but we knew we couldn’t keep one up under the circumstances. We were mostly friends who slept together several times while she was there.” He shrugged. “We parted as friends; we even write to each other from time to time. But since then, I haven’t had anyone else. Not even a one-night stand. I never really gave it much thought till now, I suppose; I was just as focused as everyone else.”

“Any men?” Sherlock asked quietly.

John shrugged again. “A handful of times when I was in the guard - sort of. Sexually, yes. As actual partners, not really. Not unless you count a few of us trying to get each other off one-handed in the guard barracks, out of experimentation or desperation. Sometimes both.” He smiled wryly. “And that was how I learned I’m not really attracted to men.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow; John laughed. “I said I’m not attracted to _men_. I am, however -” as he said this, he leaned forward, reaching to wrap his arms around Sherlock’s neck, pulling him in for a kiss “- very much attracted to _a_ man.”

When the kiss ended, Sherlock was smiling. “Are you sure you want this?” he asked.

John nodded, not releasing his embrace. “I want _you_.”

Thinking quickly, he went on, “You were right, you know. About the danger and the excitement; I suppose they are turn-ons for me. And you, well - a life with any apostate would be filled with such, but with you it’s so much more than just that. Not every apostate would be willing to do what we did the past few days, for starters. Not every apostate would trust me as completely as you do.” Neither of them glanced at the phylactery hanging from John’s neck, nestled over his heart, but they didn’t have to. “And what happened today…well, I started thinking about it on the way back. We were lucky, you know. One or both of us might not have made it home.”

Sherlock considered. “I wouldn’t have lost you today,” he said quietly.

John shook his head. “You’re not wrong. I probably wouldn’t have died from this cut. But what if I had been more seriously hurt? Or something happened to you? And even you don’t know what might happen tomorrow or the next day. We’ve wasted enough time. As long as you’re willing, I want to give this a try.”

Instead of answering, Sherlock kissed him again. John barely noticed when the mage somehow rose from his chair and ended up practically in his lap while gracefully avoiding his injured leg, their bodies melding together. All he felt was the softness of Sherlock’s lips against his, parting to let their tongues meet, one gloved hand caressing his neck while the other slipped under his shirt, stirring reactions that were both familiar and yet somehow new. All he tasted was the icy nip of lyrium and the soothing earthiness of a health poultice. The fine cloth of Sherlock’s robe now seemed an impassable barrier under his own roving hands.

But as he attempted to get up, tried to find that robe’s fastenings, John felt Sherlock's hands on his shoulders, keeping him from standing. He finally broke the kiss then, giving Sherlock a puzzled look.

Sherlock indicated John’s leg. “You need to heal first. Tomorrow night you should be fine. Is that…agreeable to you?”

John nodded. “Tomorrow night, then.” He grinned before pulling Sherlock back down, kissing along his jawline as he added, “Doesn’t mean we can’t do anything else in the meantime.”

“No,” Sherlock just managed with a grin before his mouth was otherwise occupied. “It does not.”

o~O~o

John did some light chores the next day, but otherwise was told by Sherlock to spend the rest of the day in bed, “recuperating.” He didn’t mind; he’d spent longer on bed rest for previous injuries, and he had some reading he wanted to finish. After eating dinner (which he’d had to prepare himself, of course), he washed up and settled back into bed with a book.

As twilight turned to evening, he’d just finished the last chapter when the bedroom door opened and Sherlock entered.

“How are you feeling?” he asked.

“Fine, thanks,” John answered, setting the book aside as he bent and flexed his leg to demonstrate.

“Good.” And with a speed that John had only seen when he was hurt, Sherlock practically dove onto him, pausing only to blow out the bedside candle, their lips colliding so suddenly John took a few seconds to react. Soon, though, he was returning Sherlock's kiss with a hunger and fire that had only simmered last night and in all their previous encounters.

Sherlock’s hands were roving, traversing the rough plane of John's back, his touch trailing a hot wake that left John dizzy with longing. Roughly, impatiently, he grabbed Sherlock's wrist to guide the mage's hand under his shirt, desperate to feel the warmth on his skin. The first knead of Sherlock's fingers on his bare chest seared a wave of heat that left him gasping and Sherlock grinning.

Sherlock fell backwards, pulling John with him. The brief break in contact gave him just long enough to pull John's shirt up his chest. John finished the job, throwing the shirt away before collapsing on top of his partner, kissing him fiercely as he fumbled for the fastenings of Sherlock's robe, now very conscious of the heat pressing between his legs and barely able to restrain himself from tearing off Sherlock’s clothes to get to it. He vaguely sensed Sherlock’s hands on his, showing him where to go, which way to pull, even as he unconsciously began grinding against that heat, aching to feel nothing between himself and that unmistakable proof of Sherlock’s need for him.

As John pulled back to finish opening Sherlock's robe, something gave him pause. He stared for a few moments, fascinated, then began to chuckle, not at the body he was exposing but at what had been covering it all this time.

Sherlock eyed him, more impatient than puzzled. “What’s so amusing, John?”

John traced a finger along the silken lining of the robe; it was dyed a shade of deep, rich purple. “It’s - it’s purple. All this time - I never knew…”

Sherlock tilted his head, hints of a grin playing at the corners of his mouth. “Does it please you?”

John looked up at him, his form illuminated only by the fading twilight from the window, took in his rumpled curls, flushed and glistening skin, gleaming eyes and kiss-swollen lips. “Yes,” he answered hoarsely. “Yes, very much. As does everything about you…” And before Sherlock could answer, John returned to kissing him, only stopping to roll onto his back, Sherlock on top of him, the better to allow the mage to remove his robe entirely. When their bare chests met for the first time, John shuddered at the contact, letting out a half-sob of relief as he found himself reaching between Sherlock’s legs, Sherlock’s sudden jerk in his arms telling him he’d found his mark.

He froze then, for an instant. It had been years since he’d done this, let alone with men he’d thought of mostly as brothers. The feeling of another man beneath his fingers was…not unpleasant, just unfamiliar. But this wasn’t just any other man allowing him this contact, to venture where only a handful of other men had gone before. This was the man he loved, the man he wanted to spend his life with, the man he wanted to know in every way possible. This was Sherlock.

_It’s Sherlock. It’s Sherlock_ , John thought over and over again, kissing him quickly, the words echoing like a mantra in his mind, till he thought of nothing but the man in his arms and the white-hot desire that was roaring through his veins. _It'sSherlockit'sSherlockit'sSherlockit'sSherlock…_

As if sensing his nervousness, Sherlock pulled back then, giving a reassuring smile in response to John’s look of alarm, and sat up to finish undressing. John hesitated only a moment before doing the same, grateful for the darkness that his eyes were only starting to adjust to.

“We do not need to take this further than you are comfortable with, John,” Sherlock reassured him, reaching to brush his shoulder lightly. It was a small, surprisingly tender gesture, and it did more to reassure John than anything Sherlock could have said.

John nodded. “Okay.” He moved towards Sherlock to kiss him again, easing their bodies into further contact, and it felt as natural as breathing when Sherlock broke away only to kiss further down John’s body, seeming to revel in John’s twitches and gasps of pleasure as he did so.

Sherlock’s tongue flicked and swirled around a nipple; his hand teased the other, and John bit back a cry. But as the mage was making his way down, as John was bracing himself for the touch he knew was coming, hadn’t sought for years but now unable to think of anything else…Sherlock stopped.

After a few seconds - waiting, breathless, hoping - John opened his eyes to look at Sherlock. For just an instant, he saw a flicker of inspiration in those pale blue eyes before they looked up to meet his. Sherlock moved up his body, brought his face nearer to John’s before he spoke.

“We shouldn't be doing this,” he said.

John stared, his mind finally registering what he was hearing as it snapped out of the haze he’d been in for the past few minutes. “What?”

Sherlock shrugged. “Just what I said. We shouldn’t be together like this.”

John swallowed hard. Of all the times… “Excuse me?” was all he could manage.

Sherlock lay back on the bed, a slightly teasing look in his eye as he ran a hand through his dark curls, now spread in a tousled mess on the pillow. He adjusted the blanket, pulling it to wrap loosely around his waist, leaving a tantalizing gap of darkness that only hinted at what lay beneath. It was all John could do not to dive onto him and pick up where they’d stopped, but he wanted to assess the situation first.

“Think about it,” Sherlock said before John could ask anything else. “You’re a templar. I’m a mage.” He let that sink in before continuing, rolling onto his side to move closer. “By all accounts, we shouldn’t be together.”

The faintest flicker of an idea was beginning to form at the back of John’s mind, but he was careful. “Sherlock, are - are you saying - ?”

In response, Sherlock raised his hand - and John felt the tingle run down his spine even before he saw the glow blossom on Sherlock’s fingers. He shuddered involuntarily, the silent whisper of magic echoing in his veins.

Then Sherlock reached between his legs.

“What are -” John stuttered out dumbly, the rest of his sentence swallowed in a breath as Sherlock took him in hand and carelessly, almost casually, ran his thumb over a certain spot, tracing a vein, sending his thoughts into a whirlwind.

“I am dangerous…” Sherlock whispered as his hand began to move, strokes keeping time with his words, moving back the covers and shifting downwards in the bed. “I am forbidden. You can’t have me. You shouldn’t have me…”

“Maybe not,” John gasped as Sherlock’s curls disappeared beneath the blanket, “but _you_ want _me_ , and Maker help me, _I_ want _you_ -”

And anything else he might have said after that was swallowed by his panting, increasing with the tempo of Sherlock’s mouth moving on him.

When he was nearly at the brink, Sherlock stopped. Looked up at him, almost expectantly, his gaze…teasing? Daring?

“You want to know more, don’t you?” he asked.

“Maker, I - I shouldn’t - ” John was cut off by Sherlock resuming where he had left off. Moments later, he threw aside the covers and reached for his mage. “But damn me to the Void, _I’m doing it anyway_ -”

There was a flurry of hands and mouths in a feverish exploration after that, kisses, soft licks and warm breaths, as they touched, learned, tasted, traversed every inch of each other’s bodies. Distracting Sherlock, using his own well-practiced techniques against him, John managed to reverse their positions. Sherlock was pinned like a captured butterfly beneath him, John holding him firmly in hand, now doing exactly what Sherlock had done to drive him so utterly mad the day before. He still barely knew what he was doing, but he didn’t need to. All his movements, even now, were driven by an unknown familiarity.

“I can’t have you,” he said, drawing his hand smoothly upwards.

The gasp Sherlock let out in response only spurred him on.

“But you want me anyway.”

The speed of his strokes picked up with each word that fell from his lips, each breath let out from Sherlock.

“You’re dangerous.”

Sherlock groaned in response.

“You’re perfect.”

Sherlock was tightening in his grip now.

“And most of all, you are…”

And at that least opportune of moments, John froze.

He wanted to say it, wanted more than anything to whisper those three little words, that treasured phrase: “You are _mine_.” But now that the moment had come, he could not do it. Try as he might, he could not push those words declaring that Sherlock was his past his lips.

_No_ , he realized after a moment; _Sherlock_ should be the one to decide to whom he belonged, if he even wanted to belong to anyone. He stopped himself talking with a kiss, looking earnestly at Sherlock as it ended, hoping Sherlock could see how he felt without him needing to say anything more.

And Sherlock did. But he said it anyway.

“I am yours,” Sherlock supplied, his breathing heavy.

_Yes_.

“Yes,” John breathed between kisses. “Yes, yes, yes, _yes_ … And _I_ \- am _yours_ …”

It was the last thing said between them that night.

As they moved together, with nothing and yet everything between them, arching, gasping, loving, teasing, exploring, determined to make the night last, only one thought ran through both their minds:

Nothing could be more right, more perfect than this.

And as in everything else between them, now and as it would always be, when Sherlock fell, John followed him without hesitation.

o~O~o

John woke automatically early the next morning, at the usual time of his first meditation. As he stirred and gradually sat up with the sunbeam slanting its way across the covers, he looked at his new lover and smiled. A good night’s rest after a long day spent training and exercising was one thing; a long and restful sleep after several rounds of incredibly satisfying lovemaking was quite different. He'd slept wonderfully through the night, the best sleep he'd had in a long time, and the feeling of peace that filled his mind now made him sure today would be a good day.

Before rising from the bed, he leaned over to kiss Sherlock's cheek…and froze as the sunlight illuminated Sherlock's left arm, draped on top of the covers.

No. He couldn’t be seeing what he thought he was.

Gingerly, tentatively, as though touching shards of glass, John ran his fingers up and down Sherlock's arm, over the template of scars and white lines echoing up and down the pale flesh.

They were patterned and healed too regularly to be battle injuries, suggesting self-infliction. But how? And why?

John’s eyes closed as his throat tightened at the realization. No. There had to be another explanation. These couldn’t mean…no. Not Sherlock. Not _his_ Sherlock.

Surely it couldn’t be true. Surely the man John loved, with whom he shared his life and home, for whom he had given up so much, and now had just given everything…surely he could not have been keeping a secret of this magnitude from John.

It should not have been possible. But as John thought back, reflected on all of Sherlock's strange behavior over the past several months, and even just yesterday…he realized it wasn’t improbable.

He didn't know how long he sat in their bed, paralyzed by denial, eyes closed to what he didn’t want to see or believe, before a sense of repulsion overtook him and he could not get away fast enough, dashing to the other side of their bedroom. He couldn’t even look back as he numbly went to the wardrobe and pulled out some clothes.

He hated to do it. But there was only one thing left to be done.

When Sherlock woke sometime later, he turned over on realizing he was alone, then smiled on seeing John sitting at the foot of their bed, fully dressed and lost in thought. He sat up, blankets falling away from his chest as he did, and John turned at the sound and movement. Oddly, John wasn’t smiling, only staring hard at him, but Sherlock still reached for him for a morning kiss.

That was when John acted. Immediately, he grabbed Sherlock’s reaching arm and held it up. With a glare that could have stopped a rampaging ogre at a dozen furlongs, he indicated the ghosts of self-inflicted injuries that marked Sherlock’s arm from wrist to elbow.

“Sherlock,” he said, his voice tight and controlled, “please explain these to me. _Now._ ”

**Author's Note:**

> _Hate to leave you on a cliffhanger there (wait, no I don’t ^_~), but I can assure you I have a majority of the next part written and will do my best to post it ASAP. (I almost said “get it up”, but…well…) In the meantime, feel free to speculate on what might happen next. How will Sherlock explain himself? How will John react? Will he stay or go?_   
>  _Until then, I hope my first m/m sex scene was good for you ;) (or at least not horribly traumatizing to read ;P), and thank you to everyone who reads, with special thanks to the above-named OtakuElf, The_Otter_King, ConsultingAngelOfTheIncarceron, mocelli, Sabeth_Faber, SweetPeasUnite97, keerawa, Ivylady, ihnasarima, and the ever-present, ever-reading anons. :) Whether there’s one of you or a few more who’ve enjoyed my work on any given day, I’m glad you stopped by!_


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